I think I liked my day today. Woke up around 5:00 a.m. to take my son to the bathroom. He's still struggling with staying dry at night. Lots of loads of laundry prove he hasn't mastered the skill yet. Then at 5:30, after I couldn't fall back to sleep, I came downstairs and watched Alias, which we had on Tivo from a few days ago. Then I passed out until the kids needed some breakfast, which I prepared for them, and soon after I made myself some eggs and toast with butter and honey. Showered, then rushed off to church. Sat next to a good friend at church and we had some small talk about soccer, and after church I loitered in the Social Hall and met up with a few more friends. I spoke with a friend of my wife, since we arranged for me to go to her house for some voluntary yard work, but she said she was staying for the 11:30 a.m. service, but I was welcome to start the yard work without her. Phoned the wife & told her the plan, then drove to the friend's house in Ypsilanti, surveyed the back yard, found some lawn and yard waste bags, then, thankful I stopped to get some pruning shears and gloves, began what turned out to be 3 hours of yard work. It was rewarding, in a solitary way. Drove home at 2:00 p.m., spoke to my wife, pushed my son on the swing, said good-bye to my wife, then broke up boxes and recycled them with my son at the collection bin behind the Civic Center. When we got home, I called my daughter home & prepared some delicious pasta tossed with olive oil, garlic, broccoli, carrots, and olives. Oh, and some Italian spices & cumin thrown in for taste. Not to mention salt & Parmesan cheese. And my son and I had a chicken patty each. After they ate a relaxing dinner, we drove off to Whole Foods to sample some cheese and purchase some Probiotics and some beer I've never tried. The beer was a personal reward for doing unrewarded yard work with a good attitude. Came home, cleaned the kitchen, transitioned the kids into bed, then at 8:05 p.m. began to write in my blog.

What does this narrative tell you?

It has been a good day and I enjoyed being active. Sometimes I just like doing and not stopping.

Time to go.

I was listening to my second compilation CD. Godawful. In all honesty, I have a great transition from song 1 to song 2, then some chemistry at the end of the CD, but it shows my immaturity. I created it in 2002 and after 20 or so Pop's, I can say I have a better idea what constitutes a successful compilation.

I was driving to therapy today listening to my 2002 CD Sampler, and landed on one of the songs towards the end, "Where I Go" by Natalie Merchant. The lyrics follow:


Where I Go - Natalie Merchant

climbing under
a barbed wire fence
by the railroad ties
climbing over
the old stone wall
I am bound for the riverside
well I go to the river
to soothe my mind
ponder over
the crazy days of my life
just sit and watch the river flow
find a place
on the riverbank
where the green rushes grow
see the wind
in the willow tree
in the branches hanging low
well I go to the river
to soothe my mind
to ponder over
the crazy days of my life
watch the river flow
ease my mind and my soul
where I go
well I will go to the river
from time to time
wander over
these crazy days in my mind
watch the river flow
where the willow branches grow
by the cool rolling waters
moving gracefully and slow
child it's lovely
let the river take it all away
the mad pace, the hurry
the troubles, the worries
just the river take them all away
flow away

I read the lyrics again and note how this is not a goose-bumps song, but it borders on a religious song. "The mad pace, the hurry, the troubles, the worries, just the river take them all away. Flow away." Nice. The song is followed by Emmylou Harris' dark retake of the Jimi Hendrix perky "May This Be Love":

May This Be Love - by Jimi Hendrix, performed by Emmylou Harris

waterfall
nothing can go wrong
nothing can go wrong
my sweet waterfall
when I go
when I go down deep
i want you here with me
my sweet waterfall
i can see
a rainbow calling me
through your mystery
my sweet waterfall
waterfall
for a million day
fall with me for a million days
my sweet waterfall
waterfall
nothing can go wrong
nothing can go wrong
my sweet waterfall
nothing can go wrong
my sweet waterfall

Of course, I end the 2002 CD Sampler with Emm Gryner's "Serendade":

dust from a dim southern star
digits flash in double time
san diego just hold on and never mind
faded again in the lounge
blood and wine and the water downtown
here winter kicks out the summer for hanging around
pass the time and watch the boy get off
grab a jet and give it one more shot
see your face and write a blurry line
its a good day for wishing you were mine
i wish it all the time
rushing to the slow decay
i don't care what the people say
days burn up like weed and we're still the same
shoot me a scene where i'm easy
where pieces fit and people agree
no one ever sees the way you never cease to save me
monday comes and everything is wrong
dull and cold like late december dawn
see your face and ask someone the time
it's a good day for wishing you were mine
i wish it all the time
i wish it all the time
i wish it all the time

The transition between song 1 and song 2 is something special. I can't express it in words, so you will have to wait, patiently, until you are worthy enough to listen yourself.

Till then.

Once more, I visit YouTube and find a song ... I find a song, but do you think this describes who I am? or who I am this week? Of course, I'm talking about It's Not Easy Being Green.

I drove home from my twice monthly men's meeting at the uu congregation and drove past a memorial by a rock near the driveway to a corporation near our home. The memorial is for a boy who was killed in a car accident at least two years ago. From what I gather, he was about 6. I observed a pinwheel spinning in the strong wind and I appreciated the wind. And I appreciated the pinwheel.

In memory of the boy and looking forward to the upcoming baseball season for my 4 year-old, I give you Snoopy's Baseball Game.

I helped my son ride his two-wheeler again today, first time in two weeks. Because of the soccer injury I sustained on April 9th, I haven't been able to run, either by myself or along side his bike. So after a few days with the new shoe inserts I got out on the road with him and ran next to him as he screamed up and down the neighborhood streets and sidewalks. He is actually a good rider, considering he's only been practicing it for 3 or 4 weeks. And my pain wasn't too bad. I am still conscious of the pain in the arch, and now some new pain in the ankle.

When we were half way out, he asked if he could have a snack when he got back and I said yes. He asked, "Can we have some Tic Tacks when we get home?" "Sure!" I said, knowing that was his reward for biking successfully on a two-wheeler.

We got home, broke out the Tic Tacks, went upstairs and the kids brushed their teeth with their new battery powered toothbrushes, then read Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!, consoled my son who doesn't like this part of being 4 years old, while he prefers the part of being 4 when he wore a Pull-Up to bed, fed the fish, sang a song, then put my son to bed and a few minutes later put my daughter to bed.

Now it's my time. A weird thought, as if the rest of the evening riding bikes, running with the kids, sharing a story, is not my time. But just like Little Guy needs that hug and consoling by his parent, I need that something at the end of the day as well.

The wife is out tonight at her Thursday soccer game. I'm a little jealous, so I decided to write in my blog about my late afternoon. Virtual friends. Virtual friendship. Virtual warmth.

Where's my virtual beer?!

I just realized the Beluga Cam I posted a few days ago requires a download. Here is the original Beluga Cam, posted at the Vancouver Aquarium.

Too much to post. My daughter is home from school this week. That brings a little chaos to the order (?!) in my life.

The biggest news around here (at least since the pooping on the potty post a year ago) is that my son is going to bed without a pull-up at night. And he stayed dry all night last night, although I did take him to the bathroom for his "night-night pee". So for the past week, almost, I've been taking him to the bathroom at our bedtime or first thing when I get up in the morning. Not to mention the extra loads of laundry I've been doing while his body decides not to keep his bed sheets dry. It is funny and true that when I took him to the bathroom this a.m. at midnight, he was barely an ounce conscious. Then this morning I hopped into bed with him when the sun was up & we chatted. I let him know I got into his bed because it was dry and we talked about the night. He remembered going pee around 6:00 a.m. but he didn't remember any trip to the bathroom earlier in the morning. That's alright. He's probably 60% of the way there.

The other biggest news is that I bought some expensive inserts for my running shoes & I'm able to walk a lot better the past few days. I still have a ton of pain in my arch and foot in the morning, for the first 30 minutes. This morning, since I'm staying home from work, I got up and slipped on some old shoes, got out some lawn fertilizer, and limped around the yard spreading the weed-n-feed.

Then there is the question of whether or not to thatch. I'm not a thatcher. This will be the second year in a row I've fertilized, though. Oh, on the subject of the lawn, I'll keep you posted on the mole sanctuary at our backyard neighbor's lawn.

We'll see if the milky spore has had a positive effect this year.

Here is a Moving Puzzle, mis-named as Movie Puzzle.

Benn loxo du taccu. Check it out.

I once stumbled on the Beluga Cam.

Bought some $35 inserts for my running shoes today. Ironic, because the shoes only cost $35 when I bought them at the Ann Arbor Art Fairs last year. Ironic also because this purchase might help my recovery from Plantar Fascitis. I guess that's not irony, but the remedy seems to be helping already.

Back by popular demand: The Incredible Machine! It is well worth watching with your volume turned up.

I didn't get hurt in soccer last night. Good thing. Then again, I didn't play last night due to an injury the week before. Sayang.

And now for the Good Friday special link of the day: Shoot Them Sheep Reaction Game.

A blessed Good Friday to you all & merry sheep shooting.

It is true, some of the greatest artists who ever lived were manic-depressive. Then again, some of the greatest artists who ever lived were probably short, or lazy, or lactose intolerant. So why does it matter that the manic-depressive ones are to be celebrated, while the lactose intolerant ones are not? It is wrong for me to idolize Sting because he supposedly has a mental disorder, which may or may not help his creativity, but at the same time ignore Lucy Roberts, who walks the earth unable to digest the sugar enzyme found in cow's milk?

If I had the choice, would I choose to be manic-depressive in order to create a great piece of art? Would I trade 44 years of my life for one artistic expression which would last, potentially, forever? Forever is a very long time, but then again, 44 years is a long time to live with a mental disorder, especially manic-depression. Lactose intolerance, on the other hand, is controllable with over-the-counter medicine & no one ever jumped off a bridge because they didn't take their daily dose of LactAid. Furthermore, lactose intolerance doesn't appear to have a connection with artistic creativity--the jury is still out.

Manic-depressive disorder, on the other hand, has a reputation & for that reason alone, I might consider the 44 year trade so that I could have one of my works of art last forever.

Then I think about the Wayback Machine. If someone knows the right internet address to search, that person could find out what my other web page looked like years back, back when I was wearing internet diapers. Now I'm up to training pants, so maybe I need more disorder in my life.

I admit I have been most creative at those times in my life when my emotions were extremely high or quite low. I never thought of myself at those times as a person with a mental disorder, and I don't have any signs of bi-polar disorder, not yet at least. Yet, I enjoy looking back with nostalgia at those times when my creativity was sublime. The letters I wrote when I was 19; the song I once penned; the address I wrote for the men's service at the AAUU Congregation; the wheat field. Then again, I do not require extreme emotion to create and feel good about my creation--but it sure helps.

One of the most interesting quirks about me is that I would, in most cases, rather write than speak. Now even as I write that sentence I know it is false, because I have had a successful career in furniture sales, I used to teach, and studied "Interpersonal Communication" for my M.A. degree. So there is some evidence I can hold my own in the public speaking forum. But this quirk about rather writing than speaking is something I've begun thinking about recently. Even as I write that, I wonder if I'm being forthright. My problem isn't that I write more than I speak, but rather when I write, I choose to delve into an issue more. For me, writing is therapeutic or even psychoanalytic. This shouldn't be a problem, except I require a captive audience to read my thoughts. When I know the recipient of the text, and if I want to communicate well, I write passionately. Right now, I don't have a clear audience and I don't feel this is the richest text I'll write this year. I don't know my audience & I am certain my audience isn't certain individuals I could write with passion. Oh, I could write one of the six people who visited my site in 2005. Yea, that would be great, writing to 155.256.117.9 would really inspire by being such a vivid referent. I've always been fond of 155.256.117.9. Remember that time when...? And that time...? This exercise is like asking my dog how he was inspired by abstract art that hangs in our kitchen. Yes, he's seen the art, but he'll never be able to articulate that it means absolutely nothing to him. Ok, bad example.

But if I could wrap myself around someone in my audience, like that acquaintance in Guam, that really good acquaintance in Guam, the one whose name I will not speak because of confidentiality, then I could write a specific person, know this audience cares, and write with some minimal threshold of passion. Too bad I don't have any acquaintance in Guam.

What I've been thinking about lately is why I write. I write because I feel my thoughts and feelings will be heard and understood by my audience, my friends. I write short messages when I want to communicate short expressions of myself. I write long texts when I want to explore more about who I am, the frightening parts and the safe parts.

When I was, say, 13-18 years old, I used to keep a journal. Many months a year I would write in it almost every night. Then I would put it away for a month or so, then pull it out when I needed someone to whom I could express myself. I have no idea where those journals are today, but I can tell you this: the content of my writing was interpersonal relationships, coupled with my anxiety of various specific situations. I explored, explored, and explored because I felt my closest friends could not provide me any feedback that would help me and my family seemed to me at the time unable to listen. Even if they could listen, what 14 year old would share with his mother about getting cold feet when he talked to Sally on the outside lane of the indoor track, while long jumpers practiced a few feet away? I didn't feel my mother could.

So I wrote.

At times I thought I could write with the best. I thought I was the John Lennon of prose writing. While that might be true, like John, I wrote most expressively about the intimate details of my life. If I were told to write about the skyscrapers in Manhattan, I would probably write with pedestrian effort and my writing and reputation would survive, but part of ME would be missing. So I come to understand that David Tumbarello, with a middle initial of A. for Angst, wants deeply to understand himself, and occasionally requires an audience to write so that this relationship (he with his yet unknown self) will nurture and grow.

One of the most precious gifts I ever received was back when I turned about 21, my then girlfriend typed out and compiled a volume of letters, stories, and poems I wrote over the past 3 years. How could I not want to marry someone like that! I reread the prose I wrote in the past years and my first reflection was that I don't believe all the things I used to believe, who was this character who wrote these things? Now that's an interesting question, because he is the same person who lives and breathes in my body today; I can't deny I wrote the words. But I evolve. This brings me to truth #465.

Truth 465: I can more easily accept the fluidity of thoughts, feelings, and memories, because they are cerebral. But words written down, while concrete, have the potential to embarrass the socks off the writer.

If I don't blog again for 200 years, you'll understand why.

Here are some testosterone filled videos:

Freddy Adu

Urban Ninja

The Art of Motion

Oh, I hurt myself in soccer yesterday. Now I'm hobbling around like a hob-hobbler. If it's not better by tomorrow, I may see the doctor. I just hate being injured.

When I was about 8 I got hit in the head with a baseball bat. I bled from my head and I can't believe I never went to the ER. I read this last sentence as if I could take responsibility and drive myself to the ER. No, I couldn't. There were adults in my life and I still wasn't driven to the ER. This is one of those painful memories which might impact me today. Do I trust my parents or my family as a result? Maybe a result of this and similar incidents cause me to not trust my parents and family as much as I could. Will they be there if I am in pain? I dunno. I know that a few years later I was hit in the teeth with a baseball bat and I was driven to the dentist by one of the cub scout parents. My parents met me at the dentist office & it was taken care of. I trust dentists.

Reading Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix. I have never hungered for self-help books, but this one seems to have some truth to it. Maybe when I finish the second section, I'll understand a bit more about my wife and our relationship. Better than therapy? Probably not, but still provocative.

I had a heck of a time finding a picture of Al Ninyo on the internet, so my wife suggested I post on here for the world to see.

Thanks to a generous gift from the grandparents, my son purchased Al Ninyo the Rescue Hero earlier today from Big Lots!

OMG! This guy wants to move your screen around. And he'll do it too!

Not much new around here. No car accidents to report. Didn't miss any meetings due to near fatal injuries. Just picked up the kids from soccer practice then had a chicken patty sandwich for dinner. Now time to report than I am still well and healthy. No need to worry. I just don't like the thought of people getting run over by trucks on the highway. It can just ruin one's day.

Now stop being sarcastic, David.

But I can't help it. I am troubled by an image I saw on the internet moments ago. Images like that mean it can happen to you, or me. I'm glad... I'm glad... I'm not glad. I'm troubled by this image.

So click on the link of the man who wants to move your screen around, your browser, actually, and that should be a humorous diversion.

So there is this issue of the recurring dream I mentioned yesterday. I had it again last week, but the last time I had this dream was probably 4 or 5 years ago. Before that, I had it pretty frequently in the years shortly after I left the U of I.

It's not so much a dream as an image of a place. Usually in the past, this place is narrow; in last week's dream, it was wider and had more sweeping sets of stairs.

I remember when I attended the U of I, there was an underground passageway between the Student Union and some other building close by. A small bowling alley was in this underground area under the Union. This part is factual.

The dream part involves some underground passageway at the U of I which also connects two buildings, one of them is a bookstore and one of them seemed to be a building at the South end of the quad. The underground passageway, in my dream, is lined with small stores on the left and right, and the lighting down there has always been less than adequate. This place is so real when I dream, I can sense its familiarity.

As you can tell, this recurring dream isn't plot driven, but one which is focused on a place.

Last week something changed. I dreamt there passageway ended at the bookstore, but there were two sets of expansive staircases leading up and out, towards the lowest level of the store, where one could take the elevator up to the racks of books. At the landing where the elevator was, I saw a movie theatre entrance, with brighter lights and counters where one could purchase popcorn. No one was working that day, though.

What does this dream represent? Why even have recurring dreams? Why do I not remember 99% of my dreams, but I remember this one? What is this underground passageway all about? And if I am programmed to have a recurring dream at all, why couldn't it involve some sexy supermodel???

Going to see the lawyer later today to sign our will.

Woke up yesterday at 5:30, watched TV for an hour, then went for a long run in the brisk Spring air. The run was great and I liked listening to the birds.

Amplified Heart. Does it get any better than that?

I had a recurring dream the other morning.

I'll need to write more about it later.

Listening to Emm Gryner's Dearg Doom, and I came across this game where you can play god. Ok, a vengeful god.

Had friends over for dinner yesterday. I conned my wife into cooking a 6 course Thai meal & they brought over some dessert. It was such an exciting night that I got to bed by 10:30 p.m. I was wasted all day because of my nemesis woodpecker who woke me up around 5:30 a.m. Can't wait till mating season is over.